


The Wizard and the Hopping Pot - Revised, anti-Muggle edition

by starshipslytherin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Muggles, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Society, Revised Version, Supremacy, The Tales of Beedle the Bard, beedle the bard - Freeform, muggle hate, wizard tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:52:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9253568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshipslytherin/pseuds/starshipslytherin
Summary: This is one of the tales of Beedle the Bard, who was actually very Muggle-loving; I decided to write the anti-Muggle version of the tale which is mentioned by Albus Dumbledore in his notes to the tales. My version is about a wizard who suffers from his hostile neighbours, and the hopping pot that protects him both from them, and his own foolishness.Based on the original tale by JK Rowling.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have owned the Hogwarts Library for ages now, and, out of the three books that it contains, 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard' is my absolute favourite, with 'The Wizard and the Hopping Pot' being my favourite tale. For everyone who hasn't read that book - it contains five of Beedle's tales and, respectively, the (very amusing) commentary of no lesser wizard than Albus Dumbledore.  
> The original message of the tale I chose to rewrite is very Muggle-friendly. It is about a young wizard who is taught by the hopping pot that his father passed on to him to help the non-magical folks rather than to avoid them.  
> In his commentary, Dumbledore explains that Beedle the Bard was a very Muggle-loving specimen, and that more 'conservative' wizarding families (such as the Malfoys probably, I might add) read a reversed edition of that specific tale to their offspring (leaving the latter utterly confused should they ever get to read the original version).  
> And I swear - every single bloody time that I read this sodding book, my greatest wish was to get a glimpse at this revised edition, this anti-Muggle version of my favourite tale. Today, I first thought about the possibility that some Potterhead might have composed this version themselves, using both the original text and the small bits of information about the storyline and ending of the revised edition, which Dumbledore had the decency to provide. Sadly, my research was unsuccessful.  
> However, I then remembered that I myself enjoy writing as well. I went to turn on my laptop and started to work, my sole company being my copy of 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard', multiple post-its, a large mug of tea, and the notes on how to write fairy tales that I took in my fifth year, when our teacher started a little project about the latter.  
> I have spent a lot of time and energy on this new version of the tale, as I wanted it to be perfect, and as close to what a pureblood supremacist would approve of as possible; I have given a lot of thought to it and rewritten several parts multiple times. Therefore, I do hope it will be appreciated; nevertheless, if you, dear reader, happen to know of another version of it out there, written by another passionate Potterhead like myself, I would love to hear from you, and to see someone else's interpretation of Dumbledore's notes and the habits and culture of the 'traditional' Pureblood society.  
> Thank you for making it through this.

There was once a powerful old wizard who had been forced to learn that his magic was better to be kept a secret for him to remain safe, so whenever he prepared his potions or cast his spells, he was guarded faithfully by a little cauldron he called his lucky cooking pot. From miles around, people encountered him with great distrust and envy, for he never revealed to anyone the true source of both his astonishing health and fortune, because he knew that if he did, they would deplete his powers and attempt to rob him of them to selfishly use them for their own good. He was, however, well-respected amongst his equals, for he did not live in fear, and every time that he felt trouble coming upon his house, he needed only give his pot a stir to put things right.

This prudent old wizard lived to a goodly age, then died, leaving all his chattels to his only son. This foolish son was of a very different disposition than his father. Those who could not work magic were, to the son’s mind, poor and harmless kinsmen deserving of any magical aid that they needed, and he had often quarrelled with his father’s habit of ensuring to remain concealed from them.

Upon the father’s death, the son found hidden inside the cold cooking pot a small package bearing his name. He opened it, expecting more gold, but found instead a soft, thick slipper, much too small to wear, and with no pair. A fragment of parchment within the slipper bore the words ‘In the fond hope, my son, that you will never need it’.

The son cursed his father’s age-softened mind, then threw the slipper back into the cauldron, resolving to use it henceforth as a rubbish pail. Then he went and carelessly practised his magic without considering he might be watched.

That very night he heard a bang at the front door, and outside he saw a small crowd armed with torches, and a peasant woman stepped dauntlessly towards him.

‘My granddaughter has been covered in warts since you moved into that ungrateful house!’, she cried. ‘You shall burn at the stake!”

‘I would never do such thing!’, he told her, slammed the door on her and sealed it with a charm.

He heard at once a loud clanging and banging from his kitchen. The wizard lit his wand and opened the door, and there, to his amazement, he saw his father’s old cooking pot: It had sprouted a single foot of brass, and was hopping on the spot, in the middle of the floor, making a fearful noise upon the flagstones. The wizard approached it in wonder, but fell back hurriedly when he saw that its rim was covered in a row of small and sharp teeth, and the whole of its inside was burning.

‘Gruesome object!’, he cried, and he tried firstly to Vanish the pot, then to extinguish the flames by magic, and finally to force it out of the house. None of his spells worked, however, and he was unable to prevent the pot hopping after him out of the kitchen, and then following him up to bed, clanging and banging loudly on every wooden stair. It placed itself upon the windowsill, and whenever someone approached the house with a torch, it started hopping and clanging and banging faster and more loudly.

The wizard could not sleep all night for the banging of the burning pot and the cries of the villagers outside, and next morning the pot insisted upon hopping after him to the breakfast table. _Clang, clang, clang,_ went the brass-footed pot, and the wizard had not even started his porridge when there came another knock at the door.

An old man stood on the doorstep, and behind him was a crowd armed with pitchforks.

‘My old donkey was stolen when you came here, malicious creature!’, roared the man. ‘I cannot take my wares to the market without her, and my family will go hungry tonight! You shall be slaughtered for this!’

‘I did not steal your donkey, sir!’, the wizard explained, and when the crowd screamed and drew closer with their pitchforks, he charmed the walls to withhold them.

 _Clang, clang, clang,_ went the cooking pot’s single brass foot upon the floor, but now from the flames had arisen a pitchfork, and the screams of the hostile crowd outside the house were echoing from the depths of the pot.

‘Be still! Be silent! I have done nothing to these people!’, shrieked the wizard, but not all his magical powers could quieten the pot or the people in front of his door, and the pot hopped at his heels all day, screaming and yelling and clanging, no matter where he went or what he did.

That evening there was a third bang at the door, and there on the threshold, with the largest crowd behind her, bearing torches and pitchforks and rocks to throw, stood a young woman with a face disfigured by her loud and heavy sobs.

‘My baby is cursed!’, she cried. ‘It has been grievously ill since your arrival, and I want to see you slayed and drowned!’

But the wizard still attempted to explain that he meant no harm and that he was friendly, and when the crowd only screamed louder and started to throw rocks at him and his house, he withdrew and sealed the door and all the windows.

And now the tormenting pot filled to its toothy brim with rocks, and they were catapulted out of it and all over the floor as it hopped, and screamed, and burnt even lighter.

Though within that week the crowd slowly dispersed and the cries and screams became more hustled, the pot kept the wizard informed of their many ills for which they blamed him, and of their blind fury towards him. Every day the pot would scream louder and with more ferocity, and the flames became brighter than ever, and it threw more rocks at all furniture that the wizard owned.

The wizard could not sleep or eat with the pot besides him and the awareness in his mind that he was feared and hated by the people that he had believed to be his brethren, and he could not silence the pot, or force it to be still.

At last the wizard could bear it no more, and he was forced to admit that he had been wrong.

‘All your problems, all your troubles and your woes, you shall pay for blaming them on my kind!’, he screamed, running into the night, with the pot hopping in front of him and chasing all the villagers who had settled in front of his house away. The lucky cooking pot caught every single one of them and ate and swallowed them whole and stung them with its sharp metal teeth. Clanging and banging, it hopped into the village with the wizard following it, and all his neighbours who had wanted to see the innocent wizard murdered were swallowed by the hopping pot, the peasant woman with the warty granddaughter, the old man who had lost his donkey, and the young woman with the sickly baby.

Finally, as the sun began to rise, there were only very few villagers left, and they were trembling and shaking as they fell to their knees and begged the wizard for mercy. Forgiving and friendly as he was, he granted them their wish, and they promised to let him practise his magic in peace for evermore. The merciful wizard then turned to the pot and asked it to render up everyone it had swallowed, and the pot burped out all the stupid villagers onto a great pile from which well-deserved groans of agony could be heard in the entire village. Finally, the pot was burning no more and became quiet, shiny and clean, and it permitted the wizard to fit the single slipper he had thrown into it on to the brass foot. Together, they set off back to the wizard’s house, the pot’s footsteps muffled at last.

But from that day forward, the wizard could practise his magic in peace like his father before him, and the villagers kept their promise, lest the pot cast off its slipper, and begin to chase them once more.


End file.
